No matter how riled Bradley had been by Leigh-Mallory, his senior aide, Captain Chester ‘Chet’ Hansen, thought he had rarely seen him in a better mood than he was over dinner on Friday, 2 June. Earlier that afternoon, they had driven to an airfield near their headquarters in Bristol to bid farewell to General Patton, who had been Bradley’s guest.
‘Brad, the best of luck to you,’ Patton had said to him, clenching both Bradley’s hands.4 ‘We’ll be meeting again – soon, I hope.’ When they did, Third Army would be joining the battle from Brittany and Bradley would assume command of the US 12th Army Group on the Continent.
Travelling back to Bristol, Hansen thought England had never looked prettier or greener. A former journalist from New Jersey, he had been working in public relations in New York before being drafted and sent to Officer Candidate School, where he graduated seventh in his class. From there he had been recruited directly to Bradley’s staff, and shortly after found himself bidding his wife, Marjorie, farewell and heading overseas with the general to North Africa. Nearly two years later, they were about to embark on one of the greatest military operations ever mounted and, as Hansen was keenly aware, he would have a grandstand view of the US Army’s part in it. ‘We are done with the heavy, earnest days of planning,’ he noted in his diary that night, ‘the long and endless conferences, the changes, the disappointments.5 The invasion has been tied up in a package. There is nothing to do now but to climb aboard a ship and sail on our way to France.’
The following day, Saturday, 3 June, they drove to Plymouth on the south Devon coast, passing fields crammed with tanks and tens of thousands of other vehicles, then met up with Bradley’s deputy, Lieutenant-General Courtney Hodges, and Major-General ‘Lightning’ Joe’ Collins, VII Corps commander, before reaching the ancient port from which the Pilgrim Fathers had set sail for America. From there, a launch conveyed them to USS Augusta, the cruiser that would take Bradley to Normandy and the flag of Rear-Admiral Alan Kirk, the US Naval Commander. Later, they transferred again, to USS Achernar, an old freighter converted into a command ship, in the lower centre section of which was the First Army Command Post. A large air-locator map covered a table in the centre of the room, while further maps were fixed to the walls. Next door was a filter room for radar intercepts of enemy aircraft, belying the nervousness everyone felt at the prospect of Luftwaffe attack during the invasion.
Later that afternoon, Hansen settled down to write up his diary in the much smaller operations room they had been allocated on Augusta. Maps once again lined the walls, while the sound of typewriters chattered incessantly. Coffee mugs littered every surface. Hansen learned there were other concerns than the threat of the Luftwaffe, not least whether there were enough cleared sea lanes through the minefields. Then there was the weather. While it was horribly hot and fetid on board, weather reports reaching them were not encouraging. Winds were on their way, with low cloud and reduced visibility. It was a worry …
Weather forecasting in the summer of 1944 was an imprecise science. Weather stations were dotted all over the United Kingdom and others on the west coast of Ireland could be drawn upon by Allied meteorologists despite Ireland’s neutrality. Beyond the British Isles, though, sources diminished woefully: a few weather ships and that was all. Each was equipped with barometers, anemometers, wind vanes, hygrometers and thermometers, and the meteorologists aboard could read cloud heights, bases, sea swell as well as wind speeds, but the Atlantic was a big place, the variables were massive and, ultimately, predicting weather became harder with every passing day.
There were also different schools of thought about how best to forecast. One of the senior American weathermen attached to US Strategic Air Forces, Dr Irving Krick, was a fervent believer in using historic patterns and weather cycles to supplement what could be learned from weather stations: what was known as analogue forecasting. Krick was considered something of a smug self-promoter within American meteorological circles, but he had the backing of General Hap Arnold, the commander of the US Army Air Forces, and now led the US team based at Widewing, the code name for Eisenhower’s main SHAEF HQ at London’s Bushy Park. The British Air Ministry meteorological team, on the other hand, was led by Dr Sverre Petterssen, a Norwegian, and Charles Douglas, who took a more strictly scientific approach. The Admiralty’s weather team also offered forecasts and their collected predictions were forwarded to Group Captain James Stagg, a geophysicist by training but now chief meteorologist to Eisenhower, and Colonel Donald Yates, Stagg’s deputy. It was Stagg, a thin-faced 39-year-old Scot, who had the unenviable task of drawing the various weather forecasts together and reaching some kind of conclusion.
The trouble began brewing on a gloriously sunny Thursday, 1 June, when at an evening weather conference the Air Ministry team of Petterssen and Douglas painted a gloomy outlook for D-Day, which had been set as Monday, 5 June. Krick and the Widewing team, in contrast, were far more optimistic. By the following day, the Air Ministry men were even more pessimistic, and Stagg felt compelled to relay this to Eisenhower and his commanders. By the evening, Petterssen was predicting ten-tenths cloud and a risk of a Force 5 wind on the Monday.
Reports from the weather stations arrived every few hours and the charts were updated by hand. By the evening of Saturday, 3 June, even Krick and the team at Widewing were agreeing with Petterssen’s view, as were the Admiralty’s weathermen. For Stagg, it was time to confront the commanders of the invasion once more, which he did in the library at Southwick House in Portsmouth at 9.30 p.m. Full of largely forlorn and empty bookshelves, the library was now Southwick House’s mess room.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Stagg, ‘the fears which I hoped you realised we had yesterday, Friday morning … are confirmed.’6 A low pressure area was sweeping in bringing low cloud, gales and rain. ‘Those details apply for Sunday to Tuesday and at first on Wednesday.’
Questions were asked. Leigh-Mallory wanted to know what cloud cover they could expect over the French coast. Ten-tenths. Admiral Ramsay asked whether the Force 5 winds were likely to continue on Monday and Tuesday. Yes. And Wednesday? Not settling immediately but getting brighter. For a moment no one spoke. A gloom had descended over the room. As Stagg and Yates left, they heard Eisenhower say, ‘Are we prepared to take a gamble on this?’ Their discussions continued until around 11 p.m., when Stagg was told to return for another briefing at 4.15 the next morning, Sunday, 4 June.7
‘Pleasant dreams, Stagg,’ said Tedder as he passed him.8
The hours passed quickly, with no dream time for Stagg or any of the weather teams. Krick and the Widewing team now felt certain a ridge of high pressure from the Azores would keep the worst of the cloud away from the Normandy coast. Petterssen strongly disagreed. On the other hand, following a cold front – such as the one due to be passing through – would come a few hours of lighter winds and clearer weather regardless of how the Azores high behaved. If the front passed across the Cotentin Peninsula around midnight, then, in theory, there would be an opportunity for the US airborne drop to go ahead almost on schedule with the British one a few hours later. The bombers would most likely have the visibility they needed.
Stagg, though, felt he should side with Petterssen, who was sure there would still be too much cloud cover to make the airborne drops and bombing feasible; instinctively, Stagg trusted Petterssen more than Krick, even if, deep down, it was for cultural reasons rather than anything else. Back in the library, he advised the assembled commanders that there was no real change: the forecast still looked bad.
Once again, Stagg was thanked and asked to leave while the commanders discussed the matter. Monty was for pressing on regardless, but Tedder disagreed and opted for postponement. Ike had always been worried that they would be attacking initially on D-Day with a significantly smaller force than that available to the enemy and pointed out they had always felt such an operation was possible only because of air power. If they were unable to bring that to bear, however, then he too felt they should postpon
e. ‘Are there any dissenting voices?’ he asked.9 There were none. It was a terrible decision to have to make: Forces S and J – those invasion forces heading for Sword and Juno Beaches – were already on their way and had to be recalled; the entire amphibious invasion force was already loaded on to their ships, where they would have to stay, cramped, uncomfortable, their morale and spirits draining with every passing hour. And what if the weather didn’t improve?
Outside, Stagg looked up at the still, almost cloudless sky and felt the enormity of the decision resting on their shoulders. He headed back to the SHAEF command post and to his tent to try to get some rest. Eisenhower also headed to his caravan, where he was surrounded by Westerns, newspapers and a plentiful supply of cigarettes; he had begun chain-smoking these past few days.
4.30 p.m., Southwick House, Sunday, 4 June. Stagg called a conference with all his weather teams. Everyone agreed there was a small ridge of high pressure that looked as if it might follow in behind the current low, which, if it remained on track, should last until Tuesday morning, 6 June. The weather from Wednesday to Friday still looked unsettled. It was, however, quite a big ‘if’. This small ridge of high pressure was being reported from the few weather ships out in the Atlantic; there was a pattern, definitely, but whether it would stay on course and develop into the clearer skies they hoped for was far from certain. The danger, though, was that in clutching at this potential lifeline they were resting too much upon it. Such a ridge could easily be pinched, squeezed out, pushed off course. Then there would be no high coming in at all. The low cloud would continue along with the wind and rain. ‘The fair interval from early hours Monday to Tuesday is confirmed,’ noted Stagg in his diary after the next meeting with his teams at 7.30 that night.10 This was still not quite as certain as he was making out, however. The small high was still off the west coast of Ireland and only limited weather stations were tracking its progress. There remained a distinct possibility it could still be pushed north over central England rather than over the Channel.
At 9 p.m. Stagg once more spoke to the assembled D-Day commanders and reported the improved picture. After being thoroughly grilled, he left them to their discussions. Monty was emphatically for going. So too was Bedell Smith. ‘It’s a helluva gamble,’ said Ike’s chief of staff, ‘but it’s the best possible gamble.’11
‘The question,’ said Eisenhower, ‘is just how long can you hang this operation on the end of a limb and let it hang there?’ Because of tides and moons, the next opportunity would be 19 June.12 That was two weeks away. A fortnight in which the Germans further strengthened their defences, and in which there was a huge dip in the morale of the invasion force, and potential security leaks. It was unthinkable. They had to go.
Around twenty minutes later, Eisenhower emerged from the library.
‘Stagg, we’ve put it on again,’ he told him.13 ‘For heaven’s sake hold the weather to what you have forecast for us. Don’t you bring any more bad news.’ He smiled, then stepped back inside. Shortly after that, it was agreed they would reconvene once again at 4.15 a.m. on Monday, 5 June for the final, irreversible decision.
Stagg returned to his tent around 10.30 p.m. and tried to get some rest, but sleep eluded him. Outside, the rain was slashing down against the canvas, the wind testing the guy ropes to the full. ‘Lay and thought of what it all meant,’ he noted, ‘and hoped and hoped that our story would come through.’14 His choice of words could not have been more apt.
At 3 a.m. he was up again and meeting his weather teams. By this time the front had already passed through – the skies were largely clear and the winds had dropped; if it was clear in Portsmouth, it was clear on the Cotentin Peninsula and probably rapidly clearing across the rest of Normandy as well, so had they stuck to the original D-Day it would hardly have been the disaster that had been feared. No one mentioned that, however. The decision had been made. How the weather was going to behave the following night was what mattered now.
After a further meeting with his teams, at 4.15 a.m. Stagg was back in the library to face the Supreme Commander and the commanders-in-chief. Montgomery was there, looking spry in corduroy trousers and a high-necked grey pullover. They all sat informally in armchairs as Stagg began his forecast. If anything, he told them, there were grounds for greater optimism. Once again a detailed grilling followed, then he was dismissed. It was decision time. Monty, Bedell Smith and Ramsay were for going. So too was Tedder. Leigh-Mallory had major doubts. Ultimately, though, the decision rested with Eisenhower. The burden was his.
The Supreme Commander sat in his chair, rubbed his face in his hands, then looked up. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’15
CHAPTER 6
Big War
There is a temptation, when considering D-Day, to take much of its planning, organization and scale for granted. After all, who cares about logistics and the hundreds of thousands of office staff, stevedores, merchant sailors and bean-counters? Usually, the D-Day story begins in the landing craft with the cold sea spray lashing across the seasick and scared young men about to assault the beaches. Yet they were the spearhead only. It was their terrible misfortune that they were the age and physique to have to do the actual fighting, but they were the minority in the ‘big war’ that the United States and Britain had developed over the previous couple of years. Historians, journalists and commentators can argue all they like about the tactical merits or otherwise of the Allied war machine, but it is important to remember that by D-Day the Allies were fighting a totally industrialized and highly technological war so gargantuan that today it almost makes one’s head hurt trying to absorb its scale and complexity.
The level of detailed planning involved, and the many different strands that all needed to be pulled together by men and women of different nationalities is quite astonishing. It was not just a matter of training enough men and making enough rifles and machine guns, but of keeping them fed, supporting them with the right amount of medical assistance, fuel, clothing, ammunition. Between January and June 1944, for example, Britain alone produced 7 million 5-gallon jerry fuel cans. They then had to be stored, transported and filled. It was also estimated that the Allies would need a staggering 8,000 tons of fuel every single day. Oil terminals, largely out of reach of the Luftwaffe by this stage of the war, were specially built around Liverpool and Bristol, but the fuel had to come from the US and the Caribbean in the first place and could only do so by ship across the Atlantic. Some 1,720,900 tons of fuel had reached Britain in the first five months of the year, three times the amount already used by Germany.
Once fully operational ports were established on the Continent, tankers would be able to sail straight to France, but until then, for the Allies to be able to bring their vast material superiority to bear, the oil for the initial phase of the campaign would have to come direct from Britain. Shipping would play a part, but the huge burden could be lessened by using new piping technology, and so from these new terminals pipelines were constructed across England and under the Solent to Sandown on the Isle of Wight; from there, once the invasion had succeeded, the plan was to lay a fuel pipeline all the way under the Channel to Normandy. This was not a straightforward operation. First, a pipeline had to be created that was strong and big enough to take the quantity of fuel requiring to be constantly pumped. Second, it had to be robust enough to withstand the pressure of lying at the bottom of the Channel. The result was a flexible, 76mm-diameter pipe made from a combination of lead lining, steel mesh and reinforced rubber. The plan was to lay it using a ‘Conundrum’ – a giant floating spool from which this extraordinary bit of special piping, weighing 55 tons per mile, would be laid. The logistics were considerable. Before the pipeline – code-named PLUTO: pipeline under the ocean – could be laid, the invasion forces would be dependent on what they could carry with them, which was where the fuel tankers and the millions of jerry cans came in.
Vast depots of munitions and food also had to be established. Enormous numbers of warehouses were
designed, built and filled to the rafters throughout Britain, but especially around the ports. Every port in southern England was crammed for the invasion, while enormous quantities of shipping continued to cross the Atlantic. The demand on shipping was breathtakingly high. On any given day during the war, at any given hour, on average some 2,000 British merchant vessels were sailing the world’s oceans; for US merchant ships the figure was closer to 3,000. For any supply to reach Britain, whether it be wool, cotton, rubber, timber, bauxite or any number of other goods, it all had to pass through the Atlantic, arrive in British ports – usually on the west coast and mostly at Greenock in Scotland, Liverpool, Cardiff and Bristol – and then be unloaded and moved on. Meanwhile, the Allies were fighting the war elsewhere – in Italy, in South-East Asia, in the Pacific – and were still sending supplies through the Arctic to the Soviet Union. Incredibly, US shipping to the Pacific had also increased by 62 per cent since 1943 – in all, some 5,552,000 tons of supplies would be shipped to the Pacific in 1944.1 In fact, as OVERLORD was about to be launched, in the Pacific the Americans were preparing to assault the Marianas, while in South-East Asia British Fourteenth Army was just beginning to turn the screws against the largest single land force the Japanese had yet assembled, around Imphal in north-east India. These joint operations all required scarcely comprehensible amounts of shipping and it was still barely enough.
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